Guzelyurt

Guzelyurt is charming. It is cool monastic stone and high ceilings, shaded gardens and flowers in the setting sun light. It's a bustling market Monday madness with calls of cheap goods and coloured cups and plates stacked on an intersection. It's signs to adventure, to monastery valley and to underground cities, but its lagrest sign is to itself, its name spelt out in stones on the hill behind the town. It is fireworks popping and unseen voices celebrating a football win. A delirious fever dream at my window.

It's bloodied bandages on a hospital floor, or locals staring at the "turist", being upside downs drip attached, listening, shivering. It's wondering "what is this stain on the wall?" It's eyes shutting against heavy closing pain and not wanting to open, wanting to shut out chaos.

It's a corridor or dark curious weathered faces, squatting, sitting, and a Turkish toilet with a door that doesn't shut, drip still attached, and a plastic drink cup not suited for this purpose.

It's the odd wail of pain from the young which subsides with a curiousity to look at the turist, prostrate, shivering, gulping her second drip.

It's H arriving, covered in broken down car dirt, and concern in every part of his usually cool face, saying I can't stay here, caring and dressing and washing and packing.

It's tears of pain and fever and fear merging into 40 degree sleep and urges to sweat and being lead like a child to the safety of Uchisar.